How Old Is Esther Williams?

Well, the first question might be who the hell is Esther Williams? She's a movie star that swam in all of her films. Glitzy, splashy Hollywood style movies (couldn't resist the pun).

Muzzy (nearly 80) saw a commercial with a young, really young, mom cooing to her adorable, chubby baby. "That's Esther Williams' baby. Isn't it cute?"

"Nah, nah, that's not Esther Williams. THE Esther Williams, you mean?"

"YE-E-E-S," she said sarcastically, "Esther Williams. You know Esther Williams?"

"The swimmer."

"Yes. She's wonderful in all her movies."

"That's not Esther Williams. She's like 80."

"What? Oh, stop. That was her right there."

"Mom, she's older than you. That woman was in her twenties."

"Esther Williams is maybe 40 at the most."

"FORTY!!!"

Then, she used my full name, middle name and all! "Yes, she's young. That's her baby."

"Her daughter's baby, maybe, or her granddaughter's baby. But Esther is OLD. Too old for babies."

"She is not. Don't be ridiculous." Now she's angry.

"Ok, I'll go google her." And I left the room knowing that no matter what I found out she wouldn't believe me.

When I returned, I said, "She was a member of the 1940's Olympic Team and her first movie was with Mickey Rooney. And I think he's dead. She's old."

"Now I know you are making things up. He is not dead, he's about 50."

I'm thinking I should just give up about now. Obviously, she wants Esther to be young, eternally, as she is in all the films. But something drives me pursue this ludicrous venture. "When did you see her movies?"

"I don't know. They're on from time to time."

"No, I mean first see her in the movies." Then, I jump to the chase. "She was born in 1922. You were born in 1927. It be--like you having a baby."

"Well,............................ she's just 40. You're wrong. Not 1922, that must be someone else."

Here we go, I pushed her wheelchair through the house to the computer and showed her the Wikepedia on Esther Williams which was showing a photo of Esther at about 20.

"Yes, that's her. Look, see, she's still young."

"IN THE PHOTO, mom. Not today. Read this--born in 1922."

"Oh. I can't believe that."

So, we go back to the kitchen and she says, "I bet no one knows that."

"Everyone knows she's 80 something. I'll call someone and ask. I bet your sister knows." She scowlls at me as I pick up the phone and dial. "Hi, hey, do you by chance know how old Esther Williams is?"

"I guess she's about 40. Why?"

I am shocked and appauled. Has the world gone mad? Is this a dream? "When did you first see her movies?"

"I guess when I was young."

"How old?"

"When we were in school we used to go watch her in the movies."

"It's 2006. How old is Esther Williams."

Gasp! "She must be in her 80's."

"I am handing the phone to my mother. Tell her how old Esther Williams is."

My mother's face says it all. Esther, we now all agree, is 85.

Why do I feel NO relief, no sense of having won the battle. I feel guilty. I've taken away their false reality. What difference does it make if Esther Williams is 25, 40, or dead? I really did think she was dead actually. So, I guess I'm happy to find out she isn't. We should all be happy she's alive and well and recuperating from an infection for which she was hospitalized in sunny California.

Moral of the story: We are only as old as we feel until someone comes along and throws cold water with an old swimmer in it right in our lap.

(note 6.7.2013: RIP)

What was Once Lost But Now Is Found?

You may have answered Grace, and you'd be right, of course. But this week it is BLUE LOVIE. Seems BL was hiding near the front door under a big ball. Tricky bear.

WANTED!!

Some of us remember losing our favorite stuffed friend, truck, or doll when, against your mother's advise, we took the favored toy out of the house (e.g. say the favorite Lime Sherbert Strawberry Shortcake doll you lost at the ARCH!). The experience may have required you to have counseling later in life. Or maybe you are considering having counseling, unaware that the lost bunny or doll haunts your psyche to this day.

A certain little fella we all know has lost his Lovie. We knew it would happen one day. If you see a blue Lovie somewhere in the vacinity of Cape Girardeau, MO, let us know. Or if you see one for sale in your neighborhood, do give us a call. Here's what they look like. The distraught child would like the blue bear.

http://www.aspecialgift.com/lovies.asp

The Russians Are Coming!

Actually, the Russians have been here and gone. The business associates that B. works with in Russia came to St. Louis, rather than the Americans going over to Russia, as has been the habit. One Russian engineer and his translator [V. and N. the same folks featured in B's blog] were here for the last week. We visited the Wine Country, Lake St. , Louis complete with kayaking and pontoon party boat, the Arch, the Blues game, Halloween in Wildwood, and various restaurants. They were impressed with our fair city. I gained five pounds!

Problem with losing weight is that I always know where to find it, so it isn't actually lost.

The translation between me saying something to the Russian, the translator phrasing it into Russia, his reply in Russian, translated to English left plenty of time to eat whatever was in front of me. Over and over. And chase it with beer, scotch, wine.... The Halloween jokes brought to the door by the children trick or treating were NOT so funny after being translating into Russian. Consider how much is lost in the following joke:
Why doesn't Piglet have more friends? Answer: Because he plays with Pooh.
Not even after the Russians had LOTS of Anheiser Busch products.

In Russian, the joke makes NO sense. Explaining the humor is a lost cause. There were worse jokes, I won't even go into here. The Wildwood home owners had NEVER heard of asking the trick-or treaters for jokes. Can you imagine? GADZOOKS. Silly people in West County. Well, these people are actually Candians, but really they HAVE lived in the states for 50 years.

St. Louis is the only city we've lived in (and we've lived in seven or so) where trick or treaters tell jokes when they come to the door. But you have to ask them. The home owners were amazed that all the children had jokes ready. Geez.

Speaking of St. Louis traditions--we let the Russians go home without eating toasted ravioli or White Castle. I know I know, we are such poor tour guides and hosts. But the one remaining British chap who is here for the rest of the week has tried the toasted ravioli. He was not quite sure what to make of it.

I lost seven pounds while I was in England for thirty days. They NEED toasted ravioli. British food is only as good as the ethnic restaurant you find to eat in.

When all the visitors have gone back across the pond, I'm going on a diet. This week we've still got The Hill, The Loop, and White Castle to look forward to. And beer. Lots of beer.

Reminds of a Joke

I visited my nearly 80 - year-old mother this weekend, and she told me that her cell phone continues to ring. She has a cell phone designed for five-year-olds, the Firefly. It's cute as a bug. When we got it for her [she wanted a cell phone wihtout "all those buttons"], we programed in the two main numbers, for emergencies, and a handfull of others in her phonebook--which to this day she cannot use. But we call her every once in awhile on the cell phone, so she feels connected, not only to family but also to the twenty-first century. Everybody MUST have a cell phone. Even when they never leave the house, it seems.

Her Firefly, she explained, rings and rings for over an hour and she can't shut it off. "Did you try to turn it off?" we asked.

"How?"

I took the phone and turned it off, showing her the exact step of pushing the red (hang up) button. It went off. I noted that her description of the Firefly's continued ringing sound was not one the phone is programed to make. The Firefly has about five different "rings" and to me they all sound the same, but it is not a "ring." This was my first clue.

The phone needed charging, and I guessed maybe this was some signal the phone makes to say "plug me in." So, we plugged it in.

Two days later she calls me. "My phone is ringing again and I can't shut it off."

"Huh." I replied. "Have you tried to turn it off?" I asked.

"How?"

"Push the red "hang up" button."

"It doesn't go off and it won't stop ringing."

I can hear the soud its making over the phone. This is not a cell phone noise. But I play along.
I picked up my cell phone and called the Firefly. It rings, she answers. "It works," she shouts.

"Yes, but I still hear that noise. Is it doing that in your ear?"

Long pause. "Ya know," she starts, "it isn't coming from the cell phone."

What a surprise! I think to myself. "Where is it coming from?"

"I think it's that clock on the counter," she says. The clock that DOES NOT WORK, cannot be programmed by a normal human being [and I have a sixth sense for digital watches and clocks] and should not have batteries in it. But she insists it works --it's supposed to actually SPEAK the time when you push the button. Though, what use this feature is I cannot guess. And now the clock that is impossible to set for month and day and time is beeping. Obviously an alarm of some kind.

"Take the batteries out of it," I suggest. She wheels herself over to the counter and I hear a lot fo rattling. Finally, the beeping stops.

'It WAS the clock," she says. "I thought it was the phone."

This ranks right up there with the weekend before when she swears some one came into the house and took a shower early Sunday morning. Why would someone break in and take a shower? Silver or jewels maybe, but a shower? And after they took a shower they set the damn clock's alarm to go off in the middle of day and disguise itself as a cell phone.

House Hunting

Or is that House Haunting. Tis the season, after all.

We have been looking for a house. Something tres modern, preferably. But this new listing may be one to consider. If the price was just a bit lower; current listing price is $1.75 million.

More information here.

What's the opposite of color blind?

Answer: Tetrachromat---a woman who can see four distinct ranges of color, instead of the three that most of us live with.


Found this at Mirabilis---

"Dr. Neitz, who conducts his research with his wife Maureen, said only women have the potential for super color vision.

That's because the genes for the pigments in green and red cones lie on the X chromosome, and only women have two X chromosomes, creating the opportunity for one type of red cone to be activated on one X chromosome and the other type of red cone on the other one. In a few cases, women may have two distinct green cones on either X chromosome.

But it's unlikely, Dr. Neitz said, that all of the women with four types of color cones will have the potential for superior color vision, because for many, their two red cones will be so close to each other in the wavelengths they detect that they won't see things much differently than a three-color person does.

He estimated that 2 percent to 3 percent of the world's women may have the kind of fourth cone that lies smack between the standard red and green cones, which could give them a colossal range."

Interesting but it gets me not closer to knowing why my husband can NOT tell when I get my hair cut. It does explain other things...like knowing what ties go with what shirts.

Slow Movin' Money

My $5 bill came from Montana. It took 187 Days, 16 hrs, 41 mins. to travel a distance of 942 at an average speed of 5 miles per day.

Now I have to say goodbye to Abe and spend him wisely. I shouldn't be thinking about where to spend him, such that he will travel someplace far away and fast. The rules of Where's George strictly prohibit artificial spending to speed George, Abe, and gang around the country.

This particular $5 bill has a stamped message on it which reads:
See Where I've Been
Track Where I Go Next!
www.wheresgeorge.com

And the message is in red on the back near the left side of DI10724322A series 2003. If you happen to see Abe, say hello for me. Don't send him back.

Monday in My Dull Life

You know life is really dull when the most exciting thing you can do on a Monday is track your money via the internet to see WHERE GEORGE has been.

That's right. Little George on the $5 bill we received in Minnesota can be tracked online.
WHERE's GEORGE at its very own .com
Actually, in the case of my bill, it's Where's Abe?, but no one seems to care.

The site is very slow and almost causes me to lose patience and give up. But I wait.....
The rules for tracking George or Abe are specific. You can't go to the bank get a wad of bills and copy the serial numbers to the WG.com site. Nope. That's cheating. Where's George only wants to know where George goes in an organic, natural course of events. You can't mail George to arelative or friend across the country. That's cheating, too. Unless, I suppose it's the money you are sending to your nephew in Alaska.

Can't wait to see Where George goes from here~!

Visiting Gunther's World

The Minniapolis Science Center is one of the view venues for BodyWorlds.
An amazing exhibit. I spent the first half-hour trying not faint. Breathe! Breathe! In a crowded exhibitions hall, one room after another, people filed by the mannequin-esque figures. The silence of the crowd was noticeable, leading me to wonder if everyone was thinking what I was thinking: These people were once alive. And now they're....plastic.

The bodies are skin-less, posed, and artificial looking. Except they are not artificial and something about them is too real. One body is only muscles on a skeleton; another is only the nerves. In the middle of the rooms are glass cases showing organs, limbs, bones, tumorous ridden stomachs, black lungs, and babies of varying womb-ages. No one speaks, except quietly. In hushed tones they tell each other that Uncle Clinton has the same arthritic knees and Aunt Sally has a new hip just like that one. Most people just stare.

You can't touch, not that many people would probably. The muscles, arteries, and bones are plasticized anyway. The cadavers frozen and sliced look like giant slides of the body. They would feel like glass plates no doubt, too. One slice is a fat man next to a slice of a thin man. Notice the thick layer of FAT around the first man. Like the fat on pig when you buy pork at the story, only thicker.

I was not hungry when I left. I'd show you photos, so you could start a diet this week, but they don't let you take photos. You can buy a DVD. Or a book. The photos online are scant. You can google Body Worlds Gunther and sites pop up but none are worthy of the exhibit. I will find out if it is coming to town and let you know.

Read the original blog on Body Worlds here.

Down Iowa

The Walters home was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright and rests on an overlook with great view of the Quasqueton river.

Check out the space saving bathroom! Obviously NOT a priority for Mr. Wright. The sink slides over on top of the toilet and frees up space in the bathtub/shower. It is not much bigger than a bathroom on a train. And those are the smalles bathrooms EVER.

At the river's edge is a boat house, also Wright designed. The property is vast and surrounded by woods for lots of privacy. Actually, the whole town of Quasqueton is a pretty private place. Took two phone calls from the highway and roads to find this place.















For views from someone else's trip go here:
http://www.peterbeers.net/interests/flw_rt/Iowa/Cedar_Rock/cedar_rock.htm

Up Iowa

Stopped along the route north in Iowa because we happened to see a sign for the Frank Lloyd Wright house. They have moved the Stockman/Wright house from its original site (white square house). We took the tour, but first we skipped across the street to the little village of Mission Style houses built along a creek. The owners share an idealic park-like setting joining their yards and the view of a waterfall. The homes were designed by like-minded architects in the Mission/Wright style. We found these quite by accident and thoroughly enjoyed the visit.

Minnie-Me in Minneapolis

In the lobby of the Minneapolis College of Art and Design, Minnie-Me poses with minnie art.

Minnie-Me enjoyed a tour of the Minneapolis College of Art and Design with current grad-art student, Kelley. In this photo, Minnie-Me is having a close look at the process for print making in the studio.

Everyone Likes Good Manners

I have never used a urinal. Most men, in western societies at least, use urinals all the time. I was unaware until today that there is such a thing as "good urinal manners." However, I played the Urinal Game and got 100% correct.

If I could get one of those attachments for female urination [emiction, miction, micturition, uresis] that allows one to pee standing up, I think I should be able to use the men's room. I do have good urinal manners. No one should mind.

Info on said attachments:
My Sweet Pee
Travel Mate
TM is my personal favorite, though I don't have one and have not tried one. But it comes with accessories--why not accessorize?
Shewee
The Whiz
P-Mate

I have been told that the line-persons for electric companies use a portable device that allows men or women up in the boom carts above the roadways, fixing the wires, to urinate in a comfortable, sanitary, and discreet manner. Why shouldn't we all have such a device available for easing the need to go?

Yisrayl?

Not that anyone could possibly believe someone who actually spells his name Y-I-S-R-A-Y-L, much less after he opens his mouth and predicts nuclear war. Yet, here he is, Yaweh's prophet for our time, saying just that. View the prophet.

End of Summer Cruise?

The perfect way to end a lovely summer: a cruise along the coast (or down the mudy Mississippi to New Orleans--before the hurricanes come) in your own 37' diesel cruiser. And not just ANY cruiser but the very boat that took Gilligan and the Skipper, too, on a "three hour tour." "A three hour tour." There are photos at that link of the S.S. Minnow if you are interested, interior and exterior. The cost for the perfect cruiser is $99,000, asking price. She looks seaworthy.

Caution: there are links to other formidable sailboats and the like. If you're prone to impusle buying, don't even go there.

"A House is Just a Place..."

"A house is just a place to keep your stuff while you go out and get more stuff." Wise words of a 21st Century philosopher.

The liquid airplane bomb threats reveals that most of us bring our stuff with us. Or at least we try to bring as much stuff with us as possible. The Washington Post examines the modern compulsion to never leave home without "it," concluding that we are a multi-tasking people, unable to be truly free because our attachment to stuff makes us both poor and overburdened.

I notice my own addiction to stuff when I pack the car nearly every time I leave the house: A book bag of books to return to the library, a mini-lunch cooler so my water doesn't boil in the parked car, a bag of medicines to take to my mother to refill her weekly dispenser, another to-do bag with a magazine in case I get stuck someplace, a sketch book and pencils. I like to have a digital camera along, too, but it requires a battery charger, as does my cell phone. If I'm teaching that day, I'll need my Land's End canvas briefcase overflowing with student papers and lecture notes. Invariably I have a meeting that day with a team of people I'm working with on a workshop which necessitates another canvas bag of notebooks and sources. In the back seat is an ever present red Scoth-plaid metal lunch box with wet ones, contact lubricant, nail file, napkins, a straw, a mirror, blush, a headband for "bad hair" afternoons, and anything else I can cram in and still close it.

The Post explains that we are all carrying more stuff, so I guess I'm not alone. The proof is found in the bookbags with wheels now manufactured not just for graduate students with 600 pounds of books, but for the grade school set. Children have actually been injured by their over filled bookbags.

Are we an insecure culture? Do we lack a basic trust in ourselves to make it back home? Home to our stuff?

I've tried this month to cut back on the stuff. I emptied my car, threw all the stuff in a box, and put only the ESSENTIAL stuff in the center console. I'm not even going to say what I think is essential. Trust me, it is. But I still cart those canvas bags for each occassion on the multitasking day ahead.

I have successfully made a habit of tossing out salt and ketchup. Unlike some people (you know who you are) who keep these "food" items lest you starve while your car hangs precipitously over the edge of cliff after you've skidded off the road during an ice storm, not to be found for five days; all because you read a story in the paper about the guy who lived for five days on ketchup and odd fries that were lodged in his seat cushions in an identical situation. I've seen your car parked next to mine, and you, too, could use a little unpacking.

A little advise on what not to carry is here at your finger tips. Good ol' online wiki of information. And other swell links can be found at 43 folders. Let's not stuff ourselves with too many links. Just empty your pockets and your glove compartment. Give it a month. If you need something, take it out of the box and return it to the car or bag. If you don't need it in 30 days, you don't need it. Free at last, free at last.....

Putting it off?

Let's give this a try. Here's an audio file for listening to 10+2*5 Work the Dasy

powered by ODEO
which gives you some of the details for moving through procrastination or just getting your work up and going.

I think I'll suggest it to students who are working on their English essays this semester.

Procrastination is Your Middle Name?

My middle name is Procrastination. I'm the Queen of the Land of Procrastination, in fact. I will put off just about anything, even good things, just because .... I can. My friend Pat C. says, "Never postpone pleasure." I've attempted to follow this advise whenever possible. For an award winning procrastinator, even pleasure is difficult to get started.

Merlin Mann has mastered a few anti-procrastination techniques that should help me. Here is part of what he thinks: "My favorite tonic for procrastination—which I have mentioned in passing previously—is what I call a dash, which is simply a short burst of focused activity during which you force yourself to do nothing but work on the procrastinated item for a very short period of time—perhaps as little as just one minute. By breaking a few tiny pebbles off of your perceived monolith, you end up psyching yourself out of your stupor, as well as making much-needed progress on your overdue project. Neat, huh?"

Mann is the master-mind behind loads of ongoing and completed projects. It is truly difficult to imagine he has ever had trouble with procrastination. But he makes some fine points about moving beyond the obstacle of getting started on dreaded projects, points he can only know via first hand experience. He obviously follows his own advise and has managed to squeeze onto the top one hundred blogs in the world list. No procrastination there.

I have used a similar anti-procrastination process with pretty high success. When I have something on the "to do" list that I want to do but never get 'round to, I make a plan to just do a teeny bit of it., which is often represented by "five." Here's an example: I want to work out and run more everyday. The present level of exercise is ZERO. To go from zip exercise to and hour is not going to happen. But from 0 to 5 mins. is not too difficult. From NO situps to 5 situps is EZ and can be accomplished during one commercial break, if necessary. From 15 pounds to 5 pounds is do-able. To read 5 pages won't take long, or 5 paragraphs. Even planning on starting some project or job in five mins. or five days might work. Pay off could be 5 Hershey's Kisses or five M&M's or five handfulls of popcorn or five hanfulls of M&m's. The take five process usually works for me. After doing five of something I go five more and five more over a period of time.

Like Mann's plan, once the job is started the fear is overcome and continuing on is much less threatening.

Day 3 in Russia

On Day 3 in Russia, B explores St. Petersburg by hydrafoil and wanders into a trendy Russian hookah bar. His journal has been posted.
http://meistertravel.blogspot.com/